by Lee Swift
The report, which had been entered on site on a PDA, went on with a description, but Bathry already knew what the man looked like. What to do with this information, especially since Poole had been closing in on the man before he had commandeered the delivery van?
If Bathry could get to the man before Poole or any other Drake he would have much-needed leverage. He also could interrogate the gunman and find out his true identity. Plus, the man might be able to lead me to the bastard whose overcoat he was wearing when he got into the van.
With just a few keystrokes, he modified the report the officer had filed with three words: “Possible Ripper Sighting.”
That was everything he needed to get an all-ports warning out on the mystery man. It served him very well for at least three reasons.
One, his boss, Commissioner Kevin Taylor, had been looking for any evidence that would turn The Ripper murder case over to his jurisdiction. Greedy bastard. Since Gail Simmons and Nancy Black had been killed in the center of the city, it fell to the City of London Police rather than the Met to lead the investigation.
Two, it took the heat off the real Ripper, whom Bathry wanted to find before the police or the Imperial Morvicti Council did.
Three, he would get someone in custody who was important to Poole—and likely the entire Drake Bloodline.
He would have loved to keep this from Poole, but he knew that would not be advantageous to his survival. He had to appear loyal, no matter how sickening it made him feel. And in less than two hours he would have to simper and bow some more while that odious leader of the Drakes prodded around in his domain. But not for much longer.
He rang Poole.
CHAPTER 29
1:30 PM
Austin watched the door to his cell swing open.
Remington rushed in. “Damn McCord. I don’t know how in the world this is possible but it really is you.”
Glad to see the look of relief in his old friend’s eyes, Austin smiled. “In the flesh. Just like I told you, Professor.”
Remington unlocked his handcuffs. “Shit, this is crazy.”
“The craziest I’ve ever been through, and that’s saying a lot.” He rubbed his wrists. “You and I have been through a ton of crazy.”
Remington nodded. “That’s the truth, buddy.”
“I’m so glad you survived our last mission in Iraq.”
“I only survived because of you, Austin. You took that second bullet for me.”
“If I’d been faster, you wouldn’t have gotten shot in the arm by the first one.”
His friend gave him a big brotherly hug. “God, I still can’t believe this is you. I thought you were dead. You weren’t breathing. There was no heartbeat. How in the hell is this possible?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out, buddy.” He stood and stretched. “It sure feels good to be out of that damn chair.”
“Sorry about this. I just had to be sure.”
“I would have done the same if I were in your shoes.” Austin placed his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Tell me what happened after the sniper shot me.”
“When I was leaning over you, you mumbled something about Angelique. I couldn’t make it out. Then Nelson said you were gone. No pulse.”
“What about the rest of our team?”
“You and I were the only ones who got shot. The mission was a success. The senator’s nephew was rescued. Nelson pulled me away from you to treat my injury. We thought you were dead.”
“I should have been.” He still didn’t have a clue how he’d survived. Would he ever find an answer as to why his heart still beat? Why there was no scar? “Do you know who the last person was with me before I supposedly died?”
“Lieutenant Davis.”
My old friend. “What happened to the lieutenant after the mission?”
Remington shook his head. “I never saw him again, though I did get a couple of letters from him. He had planned on attending your funeral service, but something in his personal life came up that kept him away. The lieutenant did send flowers and a letter to Angelique.”
“I’d like to track him down.”
“I would, too. I’ll see what I can do.” Michael was CIA. If Davis were still alive, he’d find him. “Last thing I heard about the lieutenant was that he retired from the SEALs. The mission that took you out ended up being Davis’s last. But here you are alive.” Michael grabbed his shoulder. “I don’t know why or who to thank, but I’m so glad you survived that mission.”
“Me, too.” It was good to be standing next to his old friend again. “What turned you around about me?”
“Your dental records and fingerprints are an exact match.”
“And my blood?”
“That’s a mystery. I’ve never seen a military file like yours. Your history is there—service dates, deployments, fingerprints. It’s your medical history that seems to have been tampered with. Your dental exams and shot records are intact, but the rest of your medical records are missing.”
“That is odd.” Since waking up on Murphy Street nothing was making any sense.
“That note I showed you points to a serial killer whose been terrorizing the streets of London for the past week. That overcoat you stole from the building wasn’t the victim’s.”
“You think it was from the Jack guy who wrote the note?”
Michael nodded. “The copycat Ripper sent a message to Dr. Thomas Wilson after killing two women. It was printed in all the papers. The grammar is different, but I believe this is from the real killer.”
“Has Harris reported back from Murphy Street yet?”
“They just arrived on scene. I should hear something shortly.” Remington took a deep breath. “Austin, I saw you get shot. Angelique and I went to your funeral. Where the hell have you been?”
“I have no idea. I remember you and me being jumped by those Iraqi soldiers—and me taking a bullet. The next thing I know I’m waking up in that underground facility I told you about.”
“When Angelique called me and told me that you were at our place, I had our database guys run a check. There’s no record anywhere. Buddy, either you are under the deepest cover I’ve ever heard of or this extraordinary tale is true. I’m just not sure which. I’ve got some of the highest clearance, but so far I haven’t been able to verify you’re part of the team yet.” Team? Michael apparently meant the CIA or some other U.S. ally’s intelligence agency. “Is there anything you want to share with me now?”
“I’m no spy, Michael.”
He nodded. “I believe you.”
“How’s Angelique?”
Michael shook his head. “She’s fit to be tied.”
Austin grinned. “That’s my sister for you.”
“And my wife.”
“So I’ve been told. I’m still trying to get my head around that one. Tell me about you two.”
“In an odd way, you’re the one who brought us together. We met at your funeral. I was torn up, and she was brokenhearted. After the service we started talking about you. I invited her to coffee, which turned into dinner. We kept talking and talking late into the evening until the restaurant had to kick us out. We met again for breakfast, but she had a flight to catch back to London. I thought that would be the end of it. She had her job at the university; I had to return to the Navy. But it wasn’t the end of it. We kept in touch via email and phone calls. Out of the blue, I got an offer from the CIA for a position based in London. The rest is history. I love her, Austin. I love her so much.”
“If Angelique had asked me to pick a husband for her I would have picked you, buddy.” Austin shook his head. “All right, enough of the mushy stuff.”
Remington laughed. “Damn right. We’re former SEALs. We can’t show our emotions like this. Some of my men might see us.”
They both laughed.
“By the way, I owe you this.” His friend punched him not so lightly on the arm. “I am never going to live down that butterfly comment.”
/> “I bet you will.”
“Let me take you to your sister now.” Remington led him to the room with the three doors.
Two CIA officers with guns stood guard.
How many men were assigned to Coach and Horses? Austin had seen ten men himself, counting the two doctors, the guards, the men outside, and the bruisers that had escorted him to the interrogation room.
“Quite a place you have here, Professor. I never thought you’d leave the Navy for the CIA.”
Michael shrugged. “So much for keeping my cover from you.”
“Or from Angelique after today.”
“This is a fucked up mess, Austin, but the cat is out of the bag now.”
His friend placed his hand on the access control device, and the door opened.
He followed him into a hallway, passing another officer.
Halfway down the passage, Michael stopped and turned to him. “I only wanted to protect Angelique. You’ve got to know that.”
“I do, buddy. What got you into the Agency?”
“It was the only way I could be with Angelique.”
“You love her and she loves you. I’m glad you switched careers and married her.”
“I wouldn’t change one thing about my decision. I’m happier being with Angelique than anyone should be allowed.” Michael ran his hands through his hair, and then smiled. “Changing the subject, I believe you need some fresh clothes.”
“That would be nice.”
“Jones,” Michael called back to the officer. “Can you have someone get Mr. McCord some clothes?”
“I’ll take care of it, sir,” the officer said attentively.
“Thanks, Jones. What are your sizes, McCord?”
He rattled them off to the officer who wrote them down, and he and Remington continued down the long hallway.
Another door.
Once again, Remington placed his hand on another security device.
It opened, and they walked into a plush living space where Angelique sat on a sofa.
CHAPTER 30
1:30 PM
Octavian Drake stared out the window as the engines quieted and the plane came to a full stop. His cousin, Belisarius, also known as Commissioner Poole, stood by a black limo ready to whisk them both to The Sanctuary of the Forgotten. Another limo and driver were waiting for Duchess Lupei.
He turned to look at the poor grieving mother. “If you need anything, Duchess, please feel free to call me.”
She smiled weakly. “Thank you, Majesty.”
The duchess’s strength amazed him. He could not imagine how she was able to contain her grief of losing her child.
He unbuckled his seatbelt and stood.
McCord and his sister were still missing.
The killer remained at large, despite the effort of the Imperial Morvicti Council’s resources to locate him. Belisarius was using his position as commissioner of the City of London Police to its fullest extent to apprehend the murderer.
Octavian knew it was only a matter of time before another bloodliner was struck down.
Most believed the slayings of Nancy and Gail had been the work of a copycat killer, with a mix of human and pure blood like the original—but not the original.
Not Jack.
Octavian wasn’t so sure anymore. The photos he received from his servants from Murphy Street were chillingly similar to the scenes that played out in Whitechapel back in 1888. His brother Rom’s murder scene filled him with rage and disgust.
But Jack had been staked, as was the custom, placed in a state he could not hurt any bloodliners. He could not escape the prison without the aid of another.
Had the centuries of peace between the bloodlines begun to crack? If so, which of the other eighty families had betrayed the ancient treaty? He hoped he was wrong that Jack was the killer.
Once he visited Jack’s cell, he would know for certain either way. Niccolai Nothosun, as he’d been known back in Prague in 1887, had distinct features.
Ivana opened the cabin door. “I hope you enjoyed the flight.”
“Thank you,” the duchess said, heading down the stairs out of the plane. She rushed to her limo.
He nodded respectfully to Ivana. “Always a pleasure.”
He met Belisarius on the tarmac.
Once inside the limo, their driver, also of the Drake Bloodline, turned to him. “Good to see you again, Your Majesty, though I wish it was under better circumstances.”
“As do I. Is everything done?”
“Yes, Majesty.” Atticus had been responsible for sanitizing the Drake Sanctuary. “The family continues their slumber at your home.”
“And Romulus’s body?”
Atticus sighed. “I placed him with the others.”
“Very good.” Octavian hadn’t been to his home on Holland Park in months. His basement was only a temporary solution to house the sleeping Drake royals. He had to deal with The Ripper issue first. Then he would find a location that would be better suited to his family’s resting place. “How long before we arrive at The Sanctuary of the Forgotten?”
Atticus grimaced, as any of the Morvicti would after discussing the most despised place in the world. “Only thirty minutes.”
“Thank you.” He clicked the button that raised the privacy glass.
Belisarius turned to him. “We have another problem.”
“And?”
“David Bathry just informed me that the Metropolitan Police Service has issued an all-ports warning with McCord’s description. I’m afraid time is running out.”
He slammed his fist on the seat. “We will not fail.”
Belisarius lowered his eyes. “Forgive me, Majesty.”
“No, cousin.” He placed his hand on the man’s shoulder. “There is nothing to forgive. You have been loyal to our bloodline and to all the Morvicti. But we must not give up hope. Ever.”
“Yes, Majesty.”
“Once we finish our business with David Bathry at…Wanstead Flats,” he said, choosing to use the name of a nearby location rather than the prison’s actual name, “we’ll return to our London offices. There we can engage more of our assets to find McCord and his sister.”
CHAPTER 31
1:45 PM
Dr. Thomas Wilson glanced around the BBC studio. “Should I look into the cameras?”
“No, sir. Just look at Ms. White,” one of the producers of the show told him. “And relax. Think of this as a conversation. You’ll sit here, Dr. Wilson.”
He sat in the leather chair, which was slightly uncomfortable. The inside of the studio reminded him of a spaceship, curved edges and bright white lights. Behind him, the screens flashed between the studio’s logo and artificial cityscape shots. It made him ill to look at it. He wondered what he should do with his hands.
“Have you reviewed the list of questions she’s going to ask you?”
“I have. Very straightforward. I appreciate that.” He wished he could take a drag from his pipe. The warm tobacco would steady his nerves. But the posted signs he’d seen on the walls made it clear that smoking inside the studio was prohibited. “It has been quite a while since I’ve been on television.”
“You will do fine. Don’t be nervous.” The woman smiled. “What I’m placing on your shirt is your microphone. It clips like this. Just talk normally. It will pick up your voice perfectly.”
“Where is Ms. White?”
“I’m right here, Dr. Wilson.” A smiling woman walked in with an entourage of people. She looked to be in her mid-thirties, if he was any judge, but knowing the procedures available nowadays, she could have been older. She wore a bright red dress with long sleeves and small gold earrings. She shook Wilson’s hand. “Thank you for coming. But do call me Andrea, please.” She sat down in the seat opposite his, while one woman ran a brush through the side of her brunette hair that already looked perfectly fine to him. Another woman was applying some touch-up makeup, and a couple of men in headsets were handing her notes.
“Thirty-seconds,” a voice behind him stated.
“I am so thrilled you agreed to this interview, Dr. Wilson. It is quite an honor.”
“My pleasure.”
The buzzing around Ms. White continued for a few more seconds, and then her busy bees scattered out of their Queen’s sight.
“Ten seconds.”
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a man hold up his hand and start the countdown to airtime. The red light came on.
“Hello, I’m Andrea White. Joining me this afternoon is geneticist, Dr. Thomas Wilson, who received a letter allegedly from the serial killer who has been terrorizing London, the copycat Ripper, less than a week ago.” She faced him with unblinking eyes.
Wilson had to keep himself from swallowing.
“First of all, Dr. Wilson, why did you wait an entire day before bringing the letter to the authorities?”
So much for the list of questions. “Initially, I believed the note was a hoax.”
“Two women were murdered. What made you decide to take the letter to Commissioner Poole the next day?”
“There were details that were released in the media that convinced me my letter was authentic.”
“So it is very likely that if those details had not been released you would have kept the letter to yourself, or perhaps even destroyed the most important evidence to date that Scotland Yard has.” Ms. White’s accusatory tone sharpened. “Why do you believe this killer sent you a letter about his murders?”
“I cannot be sure.”
“You have no idea what this portion of the note means? ‘I admire your work, Wilson.’ ”
“No,” he lied. “I’m just a geneticist. What would he want with me?”
“What indeed.” She reached behind her and brought out a copy of his book. “This is ‘Our Human Cousins,’ a book authored by you and published in 2002. Most of your peers reject your theories about a subspecies of humanity living in secret among us, do they not?”
“It is a hypothesis, Ms. White. Not a theory,” he said, feeling angry for thinking this interview would help clear up the misunderstanding about the letter. “I follow the scientific method of observation, measurement and experiment, as well as the formulation, testing and modification of hypotheses. A theory arises from repeated observation and testing and incorporates facts, laws, predictions and tested hypotheses that are widely accepted. A hypothesis is a specific, testable—”